Constant Heart (10 page)

I had sent my armor to the armorer’s to be polished and had commissioned a new spear. I commanded that a new gown be made for the girl as well. All seemed perfect. Except that everywhere I looked, the ladies of the court were bestowing tokens upon their husbands or lovers. Sometimes both. I may not have a lover, but I was a husband, and my wife had given me nothing. Not a look nor a word nor a token of any kind.

Not that it mattered.

Oh, but it did!

I intended to wait no longer. “Nicholas!”

“My lord?”

“I would that you request a handkerchief from the . . . my . . . countess.” “

My lord?” He offered his own handkerchief to me. “Please, do me the honor.”

“Thank you just the same, but I will not fix
your
handkerchief to
my
helmet.”

Knowledge lit his eyes. “Of course not, my lord.”

I kept watch on Nicholas as he made his way toward the girl.

I could not hear their conversation, but I was able to read their gestures.

At Nicholas’s approach, she smiled. The red of her gown made her skin glow like a moonstone. Nay. In truth, it could not be the red, for there was something that ever glowed from within. There was such . . . goodness about her. It flowed forth like a moonbeam.

There now! Was that not magnanimous of me?

Could the nobles around me hear my thoughts, they would think me daft indeed.

As Nicholas spoke, her smile grew broader still. She pulled a handkerchief from her sleeve and offered it to him with a laugh.

And then, he betrayed my interest. He pointed in my direction.

Her smile withered.

Our eyes met.

I bowed.

She held my glance for a long moment, then turned back toward Nicholas and spoke to him.

He bowed in leaving and made his way back to me.

“She would not have offered it had she not thought it was for you.”

“She sends it with her regard, my lord.”

“Regards?”

“Regard.”

Then she sent it with nothing. For I already knew that she had looked at me. What I wanted to know was what she thought of me.

But I took it from Nicholas and ordered my squire to tie it to my sleeve.

It was such a dainty, delicate thing.

Not entirely unlike its owner.

I watched as the earl had my handkerchief tied to his armor. I must admit that my first inclination when Nicholas had told me of the earl’s request had been to snatch the handkerchief from him.

But Joan’s words, having become a constant chorus in my head, had made me reconsider.

I had decided to sheathe my claws.

Not that I wanted . . . In truth, I did not know what I wanted.

But I could at least pretend to be a respectable wife. I could watch as the earl trotted into the tilting yard. I could take an active interest in his sport.

He won the first match. And the second. And the third. And it was only then I realized my hands were fisted tight. I opened them to find the imprint of my nails driven deep into my palms. I frowned at the marks. And as I sat there trying to detach my emotions from the earl, he lost.

Still the crowds cheered him. But he sought only one’s glance. When he raised the visor of his helmet, he was looking directly at me.

As soon as was allowed, the earl joined me. He looked quite . . . dashing . . . in the pieces of armor he still wore. His cuirass covered the great expanse of his chest, and a snowy ruff blossomed from the gorget that encircled his throat. The sun found the gold-filled engravings and touched every one of them. He dazzled.

What did one say to an earl who had just lost at the tilts? Did one congratulate him on having succeeded in matches one, two, and three? Did one express hope for better luck in the next year’s tournament? Did one say anything at all?

“I thank you for your kindness in allowing me this token of your person.”

God solved my dilemma. The earl had spoken first!

I turned on my cushion to face him. My handkerchief lay in his palm. “It gave me great pleasure to have been asked for it.”

“Then perhaps I might be allowed to keep it?” His hand closed around it.

I could not keep a blush from coloring my cheeks. “As you wish. Forgive me, my lord, for not having thought of it first, before you . . . had to . . . request it of me.”

I had not made a bad showing at the tilts. Everyone knew it was for the Earl of Cumberland to win, but I had made it through my third match without trying very hard. I should have made it to the fourth, but I had happened to glance up at the stands as I was spurring my horse to a gallop, and I saw the girl frowning. At me. It put me off my rhythm. And my being put off my rhythm threw my horse off his stride.

The result might have been foreseen. My opponent broke a spear on me. I suffered still from its blow and might have rubbed at the spot if I had not still been armored.

The day was not unpleasant, the girl beside me not uncomely. In fact, she was tripping over her words like a foal newly born. Her blush was rather becoming.

“Perhaps then, you would cede to another request?”

Her gaze quivered as it met mine. “And what might that be, my lord?”

“Perhaps you would grant me the pleasure of your company as we return to Lytham House?” I had not tried to ride beside her since our journey from her home to London after our marriage.

“It would be my . . . pleasure.” The fire in her cheeks flared once more. “An honor. Thank you, my lord.”

“The honor is mine, Lady Lytham.” I reached for her hand and kissed it, watching her face grow more ruddy all the while. Aye. Those cheeks were ablaze. It was too easy a game to be called sport, but it was amusing nonetheless. It had been years since I had seen a woman blush. The paints used by the court women hid the blooming of their cheeks, making them seem quite brazen. I had forgotten how enchanting a blush could be. “You cheered for me, then?”

Surely her cheeks must ignite into flame! That cerulean gaze sought refuge once more in her skirts. “I did, my lord.”

“Must that sound like a confession?”

“I confess, my lord, that I was so intent upon the sport that I forgot to cheer.”

“I value your interest above your plaudits. Raise your head.

Look around.”

She lifted her head at my command.

I gestured to the throngs around us, evaded the perimeter of her ruff, and brought my lips closer to her ear. “What do you see?”

Her eyes swept the crowds, lingering here and there. She glanced toward the tiltyard, then back at the crowds.

“See you not how those who shout the most sometimes watch the least? Look you there.” I turned her head to the side with a nudge from my own. “Watch the woman in green.” I observed the girl while she watched the woman and saw the instant knowledge light her face.

She clapped a hand over her mouth to stay her laugh.

The woman, a baroness, did everything but watch the tilts. She fed herself with sweetmeats. She talked with the women seated beside her, and when she thought no one was looking, she picked at her teeth. In terms of sport, she took her cues from those around her. She cheered only after she heard them start, and kept at it long after they had finished.

“Do you think she knows she cheers her husband’s enemy?”

The girl’s head turned in my direction, her eyes sought my own.

They were shaded with concern. “She does?”

“Do not worry yourself. His mistress does the same.”

Her eyes lit with alarm as she looked around. “And where is she?”

“Who?”

“His mistress?”

“Right beside her. They sit together.”

The girl’s skin went pale, as if I had drenched her with a bucket of water. It took an eternity to coax the bloom back into her cheeks, and by then I had nearly tired of the game.

10

T
he pageantry of the tilts, the crush of the crowds, and the earl’s attentions had overwhelmed me. I wanted only to ride home in peace. To let my thoughts wander to the jostling of the horse, but I had forgotten that I had made a promise. The earl had asked to ride beside me. And I had told him it would be an honor.

It was.

But I had no resources left to engage him. To converse with a courtier was to play at conversation, and I had not the wits left to be charming or gay. And if I could not be charming, he might come to think I was a dullard. I was not one. I had thoughts aplenty. I had spent them all that forenoon in wondering what it would be like to have a close friend be the recognized paramour of your husband. I had used all my strength in examining the gazes of the women who had looked in our direction, wondering which of them might be my rivals for the earl’s attentions.

I did not delude myself.

There was a choice to be made in my marriage . . . if it had not yet already been made. It was within my power, perhaps, to influence the outcome. Was the cost so very great that I could not pay it?

Many women did. Why could I not be one of them? Was pride any reason to allow a bed to grow too cold? So cold that it could no longer be considered a refuge?

“You think too much.”

“My lord?”

“Your thoughts mar your face. If you keep them within you, it might ever thus be so.” He pulled his face into a frown that, I am certain, was calculated for my amusement.

I permitted myself to smile.

“And now the lady bewitches me!”

I knew I was to have responded with some pretty phrase or other, but my thoughts had taken up too much room inside my head. And I could say nothing other than what I was thinking. I had never been especially adept at prevarication. “You do know, my lord, that I consider it an obligation of marriage to fulfill my duties. And I cannot consider my obligations met if I do not fulfill them all.”

His eyebrows rose at my words.

I felt my cheeks flame but ignored them. Those words had cost me, but the absence of them might have cost even more.

He looked at me with something akin to interest in his eyes. “Of which obligations do you speak?”

My regard faltered. I could not keep it from doing so. “Please, my lord . . . you must . . . help me.”

He had said nothing further during that ride back to Lytham House. Indeed, I almost wept from shame long before we reached the courtyard. But once inside the gates, he took the reins of my horse and helped me from the saddle with his own hand.

But instead of releasing mine, he kept it within his grasp. When I expected him, once inside, to drop my hand and turn aside to linger in the Great Hall, he escorted me instead up the grand stairs.

To my own chambers.

My stomach performed a curious trick. A kind of simultaneous dance of celebration and a careening tumble of regret. I did not dare to look at him.

But before he released my hand, he bent to whisper in my ear.

“I will return.”

He would return!

As soon as the door shut behind him, I began pulling the pins from my ruff with shaking hands.

Joan appeared and put her hands to mine. “Let me get help for you. I can call for a chambermaid. Or would you that I do it myself?”

“Nay. I do not want—he is to come back, Joan! I have followed your advice and he has said he would return.”

“Then we need all the help that can be summoned.” She stepped out of the room and returned several minutes later, followed by an army of maids, which she proceeded to command.

“You there, warm the bed.”

“You: find herbs to freshen the rushes.”

“And you: stir the fire!”

“Wine for my lady. And cinnamon for her breath.”

As Joan ordered her maids about, I was turned this way and that by my own maids relieving me of my ruff and gown and changing out my chemise.

Finally, all stood ready. All met Joan’s approval. She dismissed the maids and then, finally, she went, herself, to leave.

I clutched at her arm as she left. “I do not know what to do.”

She detached my hand and then squeezed it. “Have no worries.

I am certain that he does.”

Aye. He did. He knew. And I knew too. That was the problem.

How could I forget what I already knew? The pain. The shame. The humiliation.